Into Darkness
by Clopin K. Trouillefou
Summary: When misfortune falls upon Raoul, he seeks the wrath of the Phantom. What he finds is far from expected. Rated to be safe. Possibly Raoul/Erik
1. Chapter 1

_Author's Note: This is inspired and influenced by the story _A Shifting Dynamic _and written in my own words. This is the only chapter that will be similar to it. The rest will be my own work._

When the vicomte left with Christine, he thought he'd seen the last of them, but Fate it seemed had other plans. He'd fled before the mob and the authorities arrived in his lair, stayed away for weeks until the heat had died down and the authorities gave up waiting for him to reappear. He returned to his home, heartbroken and soul-sick with Christine's departure, and donned a spare mask, opting to leave the one he'd left behind in the hands of Meg Giry. This particular night found him staring forlornly into the flames of a fire burning in his hearth, a glass of wine in one hand, the other resting on the arm of his chair. He had plans in mind, plans he had yet to put into action, the only question was when to put them in place and whether to return to his public appearances as the Opera Ghost. It hardly seemed wise, the world now knew that the infamous Opera Ghost was nothing but a man and the Surete would come swooping back down upon him and his home were he to make his presence known once more. He had enough of a fortune squirreled away to keep him and his beloved feline, a Siamese named Ayesha, comfortable for the rest of his life. He only wondered how much longer he had yet to live, the attacks he'd endured for the last year or so had not increased in frequency, but each left him weaker and weaker. Curse his luck that his wretched good health should begin to fail him now.

Raoul de Chagny was the last person he expected, the last person he wanted, to set foot in his lair, eyes wild, panting and breathless, yet there the boy stood. Furious at the intrusion, by his former rival no less, Erik set down his glass of wine and rose to his full, imposing height menacingly.

"Are you so willing to die, Vicomte," he hissed, "that you would fly with eyes wide open into the waiting jaws of the Angel of Death? Are you so eager to again feel the caress of my lasso?"

That wild gaze stared at him, through him, filled with terror, though it seemed the infamous Phantom was not the source of that terror and the boy nodded. The boy had come seeking death? Why? Erik changed tactic, his desire to kill this boy fading, and his voice became soft and soothing.

"Why, dear child?" he asked, the hand that had been reaching for his lasso coming out to stretch towards the viscount, "Why would you seek out the Angel of Death?"

Those eyes, once full of light and life, were now so empty and lost, Erik almost wanted to ask who needed to die to rid the boy of such an awful expression. He almost gave a visible start at that train of thought; what did he care for the boy's misfortunes? This fop had stolen Christine from him, why did his fate matter a whit to the Opera Ghost? Furious at these stirrings of pity for his once-rival, furious with the boy's presence and silence, Erik could feel his temper rising to the surface.

"What is the meaning of your presence here, fop?" he demanded.

The reaction to his demand was unexpected: the boy recoiled involuntarily at the volume of the Ghost's voice, arms coming up to shield his face, cowering before him, his young body wracked with shivers of fear. Erik calmed and returned to his previous tactic, his voice lowering to a soothing, comforting tone in an effort to make himself as non-threatening as possible. Only weeks ago, this man had ventured to this same lair and faced the infamous Phantom head-on without fear. This frightened child before him was not the same man that had left with Christine.

"Raoul," he softly uttered the boy's given name, "What has become of you, child?"

Finally, Raoul opened his mouth as though to answer, but seemed to give up and instead slowly unbuttoned the filthy, torn shirt Erik now saw he wore and removed it, wincing as he did. An involuntary gasp escaped Erik as numerous wounds of varying depths were revealed, some were clearly knife wounds, but the worst seemed more animal in nature.

"I must be dreadful to look at," Raoul got out with a hollow laugh, "if even the Phantom of the Opera is disgusted."

"My God," Erik muttered, "Were you thrown to a pack of starving wolves, man?"

"That is not so far from the truth," the vicomte conceded, Erik staring at him in confusion, and the boy grew serious, "Phantom, I…. I cannot see Christine again. Not ever again. It is simply too dangerous to be around her, near her, any longer."

The words pained him to get out for, though Erik hated the boy for taking his love from him, he truly loved Christine and only wished the best for her. Seeing how weak and stressed he was, wobbling on his feet and ready to collapse, Erik guided Raoul to an armchair and let him settle himself.

"Why?" he asked once the boy seemed to have calmed, "Do you fear that those that attacked you would return and do her harm? I will find and kill them myself if such is the case."

Raoul held up a hand and shook his head, "I know you mean to try, but have no fear of _them_."

There was a deadly glare in his eyes that Erik knew well enough to know his meaning without more being said. His visible brow raised; so the boy had it in him to kill. Interesting.

"I must apologize, _monsieur_," Raoul said, "In the past I have called you 'monster', but that title was mistakenly laid upon you."

Raoul shifted in his seat, wincing in pain as he did so, Erik staring mutely at him and grimacing at the sight of the boy's pain.

"Have you gone mad? What is it you're trying to say, boy?" he demanded.

Erik lifted Raoul's head to look in his eyes, disliking what he found there; such a look did not suit this boy, it was as though he was on the brink of madness.

"I have not gone mad, Opera Ghost," Raoul sighed, "Merely stating that such a title as monster better suits me."

Empathy, so that's what that feeling was, but Erik still struggled to understand why; the boy was making no sense.

"You're making little sense, vicomte," he said.

Raoul sighed and leaned against the back of the chair, grimacing as he did, Erik's sharp eyes seeing that and guessing that the boy had more injuries than what he had seen.

"Anyone else would think me mad," Raoul muttered, "But you, I think, will not immediately decry me as such."

"Go on," Erik prompted gently.

He reached out a hand to rest gently on the viscount's shoulder in what he hoped would be a comforting gesture, but the boy winced. Erik withdrew his hand, but through the brief contact he had felt a welt on Raoul's back; the boy had been whipped.

"You lived among traveling folk for a time, did you not?" Raoul asked, recalling what Madame Giry had told him, "Did they never speak of legends of men who transform into beasts upon the full moon? Like wolves, but worse… so much worse."

The last part was uttered in a terrified whisper and Erik nodded, recalling twice in his life that he had encountered such creatures, once as a child among the Gypsies and again as an adult in a traveling fair.

"I saw one killed once when I was a child," he replied and realization dawned on him, "Are you saying that… the ones who attacked you were…?"

Raoul didn't answer, but buried his face in his hands and wept, Erik wanting to comfort him somehow but unable to.

"There were so many," the vicomte continued, "Five of them, I think. They pinned me down, it felt like they were going to tear me limb from limb. Eat me, perhaps."

Erik shivered slightly, trying to imagine what it might be like to be eaten alive, the terror the boy must have felt.

"But they didn't, they stopped and sat in a circle, watching. Waiting. The moon got higher in the sky and suddenly everything burned. Like molten lead in my veins, claws tearing me apart, pulling in every direction."

Erik put a hand to the boy's lips and watched as Raoul again buried his face in his hands and wept, letting the heaving sobs overtake him as Erik watched helplessly. He had no idea when the boy had earned the Opera Ghost's pity, but those pitiful sobs would've convinced him if nothing else did.

"Why? Why me?" the boy mumbled to himself, "What could I have done to deserve this fate?"

Previously, Erik would've rejoiced in the boy's misfortune, but how could he now with this shivering child before him? He could not even muster any of the anger he had previously felt at the mere mention of the boy's name, he simply could not do as the boy asked.

"Why come to me, vicomte?" Erik asked, "Knowing what I do now, how could you think I would kill you?"

_That I could murder an innocent child_, was his unspoken thought. Raoul looked up at him briefly before again burying his face in his hands.

"I've no idea," he muttered, "I wish you'd killed me the night of _Don Juan_, then I could've died a man, a tragic hero perhaps, but it would have been better than… than _this_!"

"Enough of this," Erik hushed him, putting a finger to the boy's lips, "No more of this talk."

He ran a hand through the boy's hair in what he hoped would be a comforting gesture and Raoul seemed to relax a little, but nonetheless Erik cursed himself for not being able to better comfort the boy. It was not one of his more finely honed skills as none had ever sought comfort from him and few had ever comforted him in his own hours of need.

"How can you even look at me any longer?" the boy asked, "You've even touched me, why? Why do you stay? Why do you not send me away, rage at me?"

Raoul gazed up at him with those crystal blue eyes, pleading and pathetic, leaving Erik horrified that one such as the vicomte should have to feel this way. This was Erik's own lot in life, it was not a fate meant for the boy before him.

"Listen to me," he said, his voice taking on a melodic tone to put Raoul at ease, "You are not at fault, you are not to blame. God, you're not even truly a man yet, are you? Just a frightened child. Put Christine from your mind for now, we will deal with that problem when we come to it. What you need now is rest. No harm will come to you with the Opera Ghost as your guardian, I will not allow it."

Raoul stared at him, not understanding where this kindness, this compassion, was coming from, he had once been certain the Phantom was incapable of such things.

"_Monsieur_," he uttered, "I would have thought simply appearing here would be enough for you to kill me, this I was not prepared for. Such kindness, why should a monster expect kindness?"

He gave a hollow laugh, Erik allowing himself a wry smile at that for his life had long ago taught him that there was no kindness for monsters, but the vicomte grew serious and morose again.

"It is too dangerous for me to be alive," he said, "I could even kill you. Please, _monsieur_, it is for the best if you just kill me."

Erik did not know what to do with the boy in this state and tried to recall how the Daroga had helped him when he himself no longer wished to live. He couldn't remember so he would simply have to do the best he could manage on his own, so he slowly and hesitantly wrapped his arms around the boy's shivering frame. Raoul tensed before relaxing into the embrace, though he still shook terribly, and took a deep breath, feeling safe here in his former enemy's home and arms.

"You had to have been terrified, child," Erik whispered.

Raoul nodded, "Quite, I fear I still am. Every time, there they are, taunting and laughing. I felt such terrible when I… Oh God, I tore out their throats! With my teeth! I just wanted them to stop!"

Raoul nearly broke down again as Erik hushed him and gently stroked his hair in an effort to calm him.

"I wanted to go to her you know," Erik pulled away to look at him, "Some instinct telling me to go home, but I did not listen. Imagine if I'd gone to her in that God-awful form! What if I'd harmed her? But I can never return to her, she'll have nothing to do with monsters. Do you think she would do me one last kindness, a parting kiss?"

He began laughing, one tainted with insanity, but it did not suit one such as the vicomte, Erik desperate to stop this before it tore out the last of Raoul's innocence as he hushed him until the boy grew quiet.

"This is not a fate you deserve," Erik muttered, "This should not be your burden."

Raoul reached out a hand and touched the Phantom, a small, sad smile on his face, Erik calming at that touch and turned to face the boy.

"Alas, but it is," he said sadly, "And there is little more we can do about it than can be done about your face. Though I do believe mine is the greater burden."

"It is a great shock to suddenly become this," Erik replied, "I was born as I am. I understand your meaning."

He carefully brushed a hand against the boy's cheek, wiping away tears that continued to mar a perfect visage. Perfect? Where had that thought come from? When did he ever think of boy in such terms? Shaking his head, Erik pushed it to the back of his mind; it did not matter at present, there were more pressing issues at hand. He could not allow further harm to come to the boy, he nodded to himself as he made his choice with confidence.

"I will protect you from now on, vicomte," he said, "From yourself and from others. You belong to me."

To Raoul's tired, strained mind, that didn't sound half bad and he allowed himself to sink back against the chair, wincing when his back came in contact with it. He'd forgotten about the lashings maring his back. Erik looked up sharply and rose to his feet.

"I should tend to your wounds," he stated, "My words will do no good if you die of infection or blood loss."

Raoul mumbled something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like, "I don't care," but Erik chose to ignore that even as his heart broke inside. This man, this boy, was as naive and innocent as Erik himself had once been so it was startling to hear such disregard for his life from one so young. Somehow, Erik felt that there was more to the story than what Raoul had so far divulged, but he did not want to press the issue until the boy was well on the mend. Pressing him for more information could easily tip the balance of an already unsteady mind. He watched as the vicomte's eyes drooped and finally closed, his breathing evening out as he dozed off.

With Raoul sleeping for the moment, Erik took the opportunity to assess the damage done to him by his attackers. There were deep claw marks that looked as though one of them might have dug claws in and slowly raked them along the boy's chest. Erik winced at the thought of it, trying to imagine what horrible pain it must have been to endure. Knife wounds of varying depths and lengths littered the vicomte's torso; whoever had done this had had fun toying with the boy. Erik himself had always preferred to inflict a quick, painless death, but this was torture, pure and simple, meant to inflict pain, not kill. There were bite marks on his arms, perhaps from them holding him down, and numerous superficial scrapes and cuts. Erik frowned deeply as he spied the blood-stained cravat the boy had tied around his neck as some sort of makeshift bandage. He untied it, hissing as he did so and the wound was revealed: a deep bite mark that had nearly torn the flesh from his neck. Clearly, Raoul hadn't been the only one going for the throat, he was lucky the bite had missed his jugular, otherwise he'd have drowned in his own blood.

Erik set about gathering his medical supplies, making sure to grab some morphine for the pain the boy was no doubt in. Years of being on his own had made him skilled at caring for and treating wounds, being aide to a Gypsy medicine woman hadn't hurt either. He could hardly tend to the wounds with the boy sitting in the position he was, so he opted to move him to the couch that sat against a wall. Once that was done, he grimly set to work, cleaning the wounds and stitching those that required it, carefully watching the boy for signs of waking. Once he was done, he sat back and pondered what his next course of action was or should be. The only wounds he hadn't tended were the welts on Raoul's back, it was best done when the boy was awake. Erik decided those could wait, that he would keep watch over the boy through the night to make sure he lived through his ordeal, though he wondered where this compassion for the vicomte, his former rival and enemy, was coming from. He heaved a sigh as he pondered over the turn of events, the creature that lay before him, injured and afraid, begging for death. Why had he spared him when previously he would have gladly granted the boy's wish? Why had he taken pity on the creature Raoul had become for surely killing him would have been best? Erik had no idea why he had decided the boy was worthy of his compassion and pity and his protection.


	2. Chapter 2

Throughout the night, Erik kept watch over Raoul, placing a cool cloth on his brow for the mild fever that had developed, as the boy slept restlessly. He ran a hand through the boy's dirty blond hair, still unsure of what to do about this mess he'd found himself embroiled in. Perhaps he should seek out Poe and consult him on this, at any rate his current situation warranted further research on werewolves and their ilk. He rose from his place by the boy's side and went to his library, seeking a book he'd obtained shortly after arriving in Paris that covered mythical creatures and the like. Once he found it, he returned to his place beside the couch, opening the book and finding what he needed, sat and spent the night reading. He read about various cases of lycanthropy, many that had taken place right there in France, but most importantly came across something lethal to them: silver. So they were vulnerable to silver, he'd have to make arrangements and procure some items fashioned from silver just in case. He rubbed his eyes, finding himself growing weary and thinking perhaps he was getting too old for all-nighters.

A low moan came from Raoul, Erik glancing at him before glancing at the clock on his mantle, seeing that it was now almost seven in the morning. Rising and stretching, Erik glanced back at the boy seeing that his eyes were opening and a hand came up to rub at them. He made his way to his kitchen to prepare some tea and breakfast, unaccustomed to having someone else to tend to. He prepared a simple porridge for the boy if only for the sake of getting some sustenance into him and, stifling a yawn, brought out tea and the boy's breakfast on a tray. Raoul was sitting up, clearly still trying to stir himself from his sleep, hands rubbing his face. At the clink of the tray and teacups, he looked up to see Erik setting his tray on the coffee table, and gave a sad smile and a shake of his head.

"I suppose it was too much to hope it was all some horrible dream," he remarked.

"Eat," was all Erik said.

Raoul did as he bade as Erik sat down in the armchair and prepared tea for himself, sitting back and sipping the warm beverage.

"I wasn't aware you could cook," Raoul said to fill the silence that had fallen.

"It does not take much skill to make a porridge," Erik replied, "At any rate, the ability to cook is a necessity else I could hardly feed myself. There are a good many things you do not know about me."

"I suppose that is true," the boy nodded, "Perhaps you'd care to tell me a bit about yourself then?"

"You know all you need to about me," he answered.

"I hardly think that's true, Phantom," came the response.

"Erik. I am simply Erik."

"You've no family name?"

"Family names are reserved for those who would not bring shame to their kin as I have."

"What now?"

"In regards to what exactly?"

"This… situation we've found ourselves in."

Erik sighed; he did not have a good answer to that question, "You need to recover your strength, first and foremost. Certain precautions must be taken for those nights when the moon is full for my protection and yours."

"I don't suppose you've any ideas about that."

Erik rose and motioned for the boy to follow, leading him to a door and taking out a key to unlock it, revealing a room of mirrors with a noose hanging in the middle of it.

"I will renovate this room," he said as Raoul peered in, "Construct it to withstand the rage of a werewolf. You will be kept locked within during the full moon."

Raoul sighed, "It would be for the best I suppose."

"Come," Erik closed and locked the door once more and moving back to his living area, "I must tend to the wounds on your back. I was unable to do so while you slept."

With Raoul lying face down on the couch, Erik fetched some warm water and cloths as well as more disinfectant before taking a seat and carefully cleaning the welts, some of which were deep enough to have bled. Raoul wondered about Erik's clear expertise in treating wounds, wondered how many times the man had had to tend to his own. What did he truly know about this man aside from his ability to kill? Madame Giry had told him this man was a prodigy, that he'd built a palace for the Shah of Persia, that she'd first seen him in a traveling carnival where he'd been kept in a cage. He himself had said his mother had hated him, that his first scrap of clothing was a mask. He now knew the Phantom's name, his only name, was Erik and that he knew how to cook and how to apply medical aid.

"Sit up," that angelic voice broke through his thoughts, "I need to bandage your wounds now that they've been tended to."

Raoul did as he was told and Erik set to work bandaging his various wounds, paying special attention to the wound at the boy's neck. He worked in silence, both to concentrate on his task and because he was accustomed to silence, he wasn't experienced enough in small talk to chatter away as he worked.

A few hours later found Erik at his piano, busy composing while Raoul took a look around the lair and his enviable library. Raoul doubted his estate had as many books and all of these spanned various subjects from fiction to non, Shakespeare to Poe to things such as ventriloquism.

"Erik!" a voice called from the entrance.

Erik stopped playing and turned to see Madame Giry striding towards him, cane in hand and looking perturbed.

"What has happened?" she asked, stopping behind him.

Erik gracefully rose from his piano bench, turning to face the stern ballet mistress who stood with both hands on her cane, one finger tapping impatiently.

"Yes, madam?" Erik asked, "What seems to be the trouble?"

"Christine has been to see me," she replied, "It seems her fiance is missing and she wondered if you had anything to do with it."

"I assure you, the vicomte's absence is not my doing," he said.

At that moment, Raoul emerged from the library to see what the commotion was, Madame Giry's brow raising when she set eyes on him.

"And yet," she said, looking back to Erik and motioning a hand in Raoul's direction, "Here he is."

"I said his absence is not my doing," Erik reiterated, "I never said he was not present. However, the circumstances which brought him here were not my doing."

"What has happened?" she asked.

"Madam, you would not believe me if I told you," he remarked.

"And just what do you expect me to tell Miss Daae?"

"I've no idea!" Erik exclaimed, "Tell her whatever you must, I'm sure you'll think of something."

"Madame Giry," Raoul said, "Please, it is simply too dangerous for her to be near me any longer. I have no wish to harm her."

"If you expect me to mislead Miss Daae," Madame Giry said, "One of you had best tell me what has happened."

"As Erik stated, you would not believe me," the vicomte sighed, "I hardly believe it myself."

"And Erik," she raised an eyebrow at the Phantom, "Believes you?"

"If not for my own past," Erik put in, "and the things I have witnessed, I would hardly have believed him."

"Gentleman," she breathed, "Perhaps you would allow me to judge for myself."

"It is not my tale to tell," he said, "That is for _Monsieur _Vicomte to decide."

Raoul sighed, hardly knowing what to do now that Erik had put it all on him to decide whether or not to entrust the whole truth to Madame Giry. She had kept Erik's secrets for who knew how many years, so certainly she could be trusted and could be discreet, but would she think him mad? He sat in the armchair, rubbing his face with his hands, not knowing what to do or what to say, how much to reveal.

"Perhaps the vicomte is simply too taxed at the moment," Erik sighed, "He has been through much over the past several hours."

"No," Raoul got out, "Thank you, Erik, but it is quite alright. I believe Madame Giry can be trusted with this secret if she can trusted with yours."

"As I recall, she betrayed me," he returned.

"Out of necessity!" the vicomte exclaimed, "To save Christine and it was only to me that she revealed your hideaway. Surely you can forgive that."

"And if she does not believe you?" Erik questioned.

"Then she does not believe me, I cannot force her to. Surely she would, however, keep the secret of my whereabouts."

"Christine will not give up her search for you," Madame Giry said.

"We will find a way to deal with her," Erik replied.

With a deep breath, Raoul once again shared the horrific tale of what had happened to him over the course of the last several hours.

"You are a werewolf?" Madame Giry slowly asked.

"Yes," Raoul sighed, hearing the disbelief in her voice.

"And you came here seeking Erik to end your life?" she went on, then turned to look at Erik, "And you believe this insanity?"

"I once witnessed the Gypsies kill such a creature," he commented.

"I cannot believe what I'm hearing," she muttered, "You are both mad."

"Perhaps," Raoul responded, "I am not asking you to believe me, only to say nothing to Christine of this."

"Should I tell anyone of this, I would surely be sent to the madhouse," Madame Giry sighed, "I will not speak a word of this to anyone."

"What of Christine?" Raoul pressed.

"I will think of something to tell her," she replied.

"Thank you, Madame Giry," he breathed a sigh of relief.

"Do not thank me, _Monsieur vicomte_," she said, "I've no doubt she will eventually venture down here if one of you do not go to her and explain."


End file.
